by D C Alden
Schultz drew rings on the tablet in front of him, which then appeared on the main video screen. ‘There are three main groups of infected,’ he told the room. ‘The largest one is here in downtown Lubbock, about twenty-thousand strong, all circumventing a three-block area. There’s a smaller one here to the south, tracking the fires and picking off survivors, and this one to the north, about fifteen-thousand strong. It’s this group that concerns us most.
‘What’re they doing?’ Grady asked.
The admiral looked around the table and said, ‘Reconnaissance.’
‘You can’t be serious.’ It was Vernon Brown, Coffman’s Vice President. The former Tennessee governor and hopeless party nominee had been plucked from obscurity by Coffman in return for his unquestionable loyalty and ability to say and do the right thing when required.
‘The admiral is correct,’ chipped in a Marine general. He used his own tablet to pull up the drone feed of the group in question. On the main screen, thousands of infected were moving beneath the freeway, while thousands more flanked the main group, spreading out through the streets in a loose formation. ‘This main body of infected is heading north through the Guadalupe district, supported on either flank by these smaller groups. You can see they’re moving carefully, as if they’re scouting the terrain.’
‘My God,’ someone whispered.
‘Why head north?’ Coffman asked.
‘We brought Curtis Stringer back in, ran the footage by him. He thinks they’re drawn to the freeway. Some kind of collective memory phenomena. It’s the only major road out of Lubbock, and he thinks they might’ve made that connection. The good news is, it’s a hundred miles to Amarillo, which is the closest major city.’
’Does anyone else find that strange?’ Brown asked.
There was silence around the room. Coffman waited for her VP to elaborate.
‘What I mean is, why attack Lubbock? One of the remotest cities in the country?’
Not so dumb after all. ‘Maybe this is a test,’ Coffman said, ‘or maybe the terrorists are drawing resources away from the real target. We can’t know. All we can do is put the country on alert and deal with what’s in front of us.’
There was a murmur of agreement around the table.
‘What’re we going to do about them, Madam President? The infected, I mean?’
It was Grady again, and Coffman was beginning to regret her appointment. It was all very well ticking the boxes and making sure she had enough women and minorities in her cabinet, but Grady’s constant whining and obvious lack of moral fibre was beginning to grate on Coffman’s nerves.
‘I want you to go down there, Diane. Be my eyes and ears on the ground.’
Grady’s own eyes widened. ‘Excuse me, ma’am?’
‘Let’s get transport organised for Diane immediately,’ she told a hovering aide, before refocusing on Grady. ‘I think it’s only right that the Secretary of Homeland Security be a prominent face during this crisis, so I want you set up at the Forward Operating Base. You’ll brief us when you arrive, and Jim Magee will inform the media of your presence. Thank you, Diane, and godspeed.’
Grady was too shocked to argue. She got out of her chair and headed for the door. Maybe we’ll catch a break, Coffman thought; nothing screams national crisis more than the Homeland Security chief getting gang raped on TV by a bunch of infected Texans. The mental image gave her a brief thrill before she concentrated on other matters.
‘Talk to me about containment, Admiral Schultz.’
‘Right now we have sixty-five thousand troops manning a perimeter over eighty miles long and covering five-hundred square miles. Thankfully, a vast bulk of the infected have not ventured beyond the greater Lubbock area, but as the general has pointed out, that could change very soon.’
‘The infection cannot be allowed to spread, I think we’re all agreed on that.’
There were more nods and murmurs around the table. Coffman got to her feet, waving everyone else back into their seats. She walked around the room until she stood in front of the video wall. All she saw was destruction and death. She’d expected that much, had prepared herself for it, but the others in the room were not so lucky, especially the civilians. They’d been shaken to the core and wanted it to stop.
‘Our efforts to contain the initial spread have cost the lives of thousands of innocent Americans. It’s clear those efforts have failed, which means the bombing option is back on the table. As we’ve discovered, the public is struggling with the reality of that decision, so I suggest we give them what they want; transparency. Enough to make them understand the danger we’re all in.’
She turned and faced the room, her arms folder across her crisp white shirt.
‘Tonight I will address the nation. We’ll go public with the Baghdad videos, including the original footage of Jackson strapped to his bed. And I want some of the Lubbock footage out there too. The American people should know the threat that faces them, and the measures this administration must take to neutralise that threat. They have a right to know what’s at stake and why we’ve been forced to take drastic measures. It’s the right thing to do.’
Voices erupted around the table.
‘This will terrify them — ’
‘ — spark civil unrest.’
‘ — markets will fall through the floor.’
‘Enough,’ Coffman ordered. ‘There will be trouble, that’s for sure. And yes, the markets will take a hit, so anyone more concerned about their stock portfolio than the security of this country can leave the room now. And not return.’
No one moved. Coffman came back around the table and sat down.
’Once the American people understand the true horror of this thing, they’ll demand we carpet bomb the whole state in order to prevent it spreading. Obviously we won’t do that, but the public will understand our choices are limited and the alternatives unthinkable.’
She studied the faces around the table and knew she’d won them over. They were desperate to assuage their own guilt too, that much was obvious. A supportive nation would go a long way in helping to achieve that.
‘If we have to invoke emergency legislation then so be it, but we must pray it doesn’t come to that. As for the infected in Lubbock, I think we’ve all seen enough bloodshed. We’re not dropping any more bombs, not if we can help it. It’s about containment and control now. We have a plan, is that correct Admiral Schultz?’
‘Indeed we do, ma’am.’
She watched Charlie get to his feet, swiping his tablet as he projected maps up onto the video wall. ‘We’re going to physically block every road and track out of the city. We’ll continue to deploy troops around the containment zone until the engineers arrive, and then they’ll start to erect barricades and roll out the razor wire. At the same time, escape routes will be clearly marked for those survivors still able to make it out. We’re working on identifying LZ’s to get in closer to the city centre and get people out that way.’
‘Save as many as you can, Admiral.’ Coffman’s eyes were drawn to the shadows behind Karen Baranski. A face emerged out of the gloom, whispered in her ear, then retreated. Baranski looked at Coffman, expectant.
‘What is it, Karen?’
She leaned forward and spoke into her microphone, her voice echoing around the cavern. ‘It’s Shanghai, Madam President. There’s been an event.’
‘An event?’ Coffman repeated, knowing what was coming.
‘Yes, ma’am. An outbreak. In the city centre.’
‘Shanghai?’ the Director of National Intelligence stuttered. ‘My God, that’s a city of almost thirty million people.’
Forty-four, if you factor in the wider metropolitan area, Coffman corrected him silently.
She closed her eyes and hung her head in her hands. For anyone watching, it was a natural reaction to the news; the abject horror, the incomprehension, the fear of what lay ahead. They were wrong, naturally.
Because behind those expensively moisturised
and manicured hands, the only emotions Coffman felt were relief.
And excitement.
The Need for Speed
The Army physician deflated the velcro cuff and removed it from Mulholland’s arm.
‘Your heart rate is a little high.’
‘I guess I’m excited by the prospect of getting out of here,’ Mulholland quipped.
The White House doctor gave his chart another look. ‘Physically you check out, but given the current crisis, I’d say you’re suffering from mild exhaustion compounded by a little anxiety. I can prescribe a tranquilliser to smooth that out, a very mild dose, something that won’t impair your judgement.’
Mulholland pulled on his jacket and overcoat. ‘I guess it wouldn’t hurt.’
‘Well, you’re good to go. Your meds will be waiting for you at the pharmacy. You can collect them on the way out.’
He left the room, and then a dark suited Latino appeared in the doorway. ‘Mr Mulholland, my name is Agent Lopez. I’m here to escort you to Andrews. There’s a plane waiting to take you to Denver, sir.’
Mulholland nodded and followed the Secret Service agent out of the room. Three of his colleagues waited out in the hallway. One of them had an ugly black shotgun clearly visible beneath his raincoat, and Mulholland was reminded of the tension the crisis had triggered, even here at the Walter Reed Military Medical Centre, where an atmosphere of quiet urgency permeated the air. They were preparing for the worst, and not even Mulholland knew where the next few weeks would take them.
Staff and patients stepped aside as Lopez and his detail cut a path through the hallway. They passed a busy TV lounge where people were watching the news. Texas had been replaced by Shanghai, but the footage from China was extremely limited; it was all shaky footage and a lot of running feet. Beijing had already pulled the media plug. Nothing was coming out of Shanghai anymore.
After collecting his medication, Mulholland continued outside. The sky was grey and a bitter wind whipped snow beneath the portico where two black SUVs idled, their red and blue grill lights pulsing. Mulholland climbed into the warmth of the rear vehicle and the convoy set off at a brisk pace. A couple of DC Metro cars met them at the gate and bracketed them front and rear, their own lights blazing a path through the morning traffic.
There were fewer cars and fewer people on the sidewalks, Mulholland observed. Panic buying was now a thing, and stores were rationing certain goods. That policy had caused a few mass brawls and a couple of shootings, and he wondered what would happen if the virus escaped from Lubbock and started to spread. Amy thought she could keep a lid on it, but Mulholland wasn’t so sure. What would happen if the H-1 virus unexpectedly mutated? What then?
The end of life as we know it.
Mulholland swallowed a sudden rush of fear. The panic attacks had started not long after Baghdad. He’d woken in the middle of the night, used the bathroom and gone back to bed. As he lay in the dark, waiting for sleep to return and thinking of nothing in particular, his heart rate had suddenly accelerated, and he was consumed by an inexplicable feeling of dread that he’d struggled to control. That sunrise had brought little relief.
The attacks had occurred regularly after that, and not always in the dead of night. He didn’t tell anyone, because he had a pretty good idea what had triggered them — the Baghdad footage, the unedited carnage, the violent deaths of so many innocent people, and the subsequent cover up. The attacks had worsened after he’d met the survivors, crushed by the guilt of his part in the murder of their friends and colleagues. He’d tried to block it all out, bury it, but the truth was, it had psychologically scarred him.
And now it was eating him alive.
As the convoy headed towards the Beltway, Mulholland reflected on how low he’d sunk. He’d been at Amy’s side for many years, and in that time he’d willingly participated in the lying and cheating, the blackmail and bribery, and he’d always chalked it up as the price of politics. Winning the White House should’ve been the pinnacle of his career, and yet it had turned out to be a nightmare. Amy wasn’t content with being President of the United States. No, she was motivated by revenge on those who’d failed to welcome her into their New World Order. Now she wanted to double down, unleash H-1 across the globe and seize ultimate power, with Mulholland by her side.
His hand wrapped round the pill container in his pocket, knowing he wasn’t going to medicate his way out of this one. He was sickened by his complicity, by his inability to take a stand against genocide. He was a coward. And for Erik Mulholland, there could be only one cure.
They were travelling on the Beltway now, almost bumper to bumper in the left lane. The traffic ahead was peeling to the right, getting out of the way.
‘Take me to Du Pont Circle,’ Mulholland ordered.
Lopez swivelled around in his seat. ‘Our orders are to escort you directly to Andrews, sir. The President is expecting you at Snowcat.’
‘I need to stop at the house, pick up a few personal items. Don’t worry, I’ll call the President personally, make sure you guys don’t get into any trouble.’ He smiled, and the stony-faced Latino stared back at him. ‘I’m not asking,’ Mulholland added, his smile fading.
‘Roger that, sir.’
Lopez spoke into his radio and a moment later the convoy was cutting across the road and exiting the Beltway at Forest Glen. It took another twenty-three minutes to reach Mulholland’s townhouse on Newport Place, a leafy street in one of DC’s better neighbourhoods. The convoy stopped outside, blocking the road, engines idling and lights flickering.
Mulholland climbed out of the vehicle and two agents followed him towards the house. He pulled out his keys and unlocked the security door, then the main one. ‘I’ll be five minutes,’ he told the agents.
They didn’t speak. Instead they turned to face the street, flanking the steps like bouncers outside a nightclub. Locals stopped and stared at the intimidating invasion of their quiet street. One or two held up their phones.
It was all about speed, now.
Mulholland closed the front door behind him and punched in the alarm code. The house was immaculate and expensively furnished, the front door thick and heavy. He turned around, and as quietly as he could manage, he dropped the top and bottom bolts. Then he checked his watch.
One minute.
He took the stairs two at a time. His heart pounded and his hands felt clammy as he ran into the bedroom and threw open the closet. He plucked a couple of hangers off the rail and changed quickly into jeans and a dark crewneck sweater. He went back to the closet, removed three of the shelves and pushed hard on the panel behind. It sprung out, revealing a small alcove. Mulholland removed thirty-thousand dollars in sealed packets, three pre-paid Visa cards, and a pre-paid smart phone. He also removed a USB thumb drive that was clipped to a black State Department lanyard. He looped it over his head and tucked it beneath his sweater.
Three minutes.
He hurried into the en-suite and flipped the shower on. He left a small gap in the door and ran downstairs in his socks, padding quietly through to the back of the house. He ducked into a walk-in closet, tied on a pair of Nike sneakers and tugged on a green Columbia padded jacket. From the shelf above he grabbed the black duffel bag he’d hoped never to use. It contained clothes, underwear, toiletries, a small first-aid kit, his usual pills and creams, and a brand-new Powerbook. The military called it a bug-out bag, which was apt. Mulholland knocked off the light, closed the door and slung the bag over his back, tightening the straps.
Six minutes.
He unlocked the kitchen door, then hesitated — there was still time to turn around, to get back inside the SUV. For life to continue as normal, to remain tied to an administration as lethal as any twentieth-century dictatorship. For the panic attacks to continue, for the anxiety to worsen…
Mulholland twisted the handle and stepped out into the cold air. He crossed the small patio, opened the back gate and turned right into the alleyway beyond.
Seven minutes.
There were houses on either side, cars parked in bays, several dumpsters but no people. He walked briskly to the end of the alleyway and onto O Street. He hit the sidewalk and turned east towards New Hampshire Avenue, jogging casually, a guy late for something that wasn’t that important. He reached the intersection on 20th Street and checked his watch.
Nine minutes.
By now Lopez would be getting impatient. He would radio the guys on the porch and they would knock on the door, respectfully at first. That would last a minute, perhaps two. Then the knocking would become more urgent. Lopez would appear on the porch, and his first reaction would be one of concern; perhaps his charge had suffered another fit and was convulsing on the floor of his bathroom. They’d try to force the door but the bolts would hold them. Agents would be deployed to the rear of the property, and access gained via the unlocked kitchen door. Trouble would start the moment they saw the front door bolted from the inside.
The discarded clothes, the running shower, the ensuing search, they would all buy another few minutes perhaps, then reality would bite and the hunt would begin. Amy Coffman would be informed sooner rather than later. There would be doubt, hesitation, debate. More time banked. Then a decision would be made; find Erik Mulholland and bring him in.
By that time, Mulholland had to be far away.
Twelve minutes.
He boarded the Metro at Du Pont Circle and rode it for thirty minutes to Spring Hill station in Fairfax County. He walked three blocks to a multi-storey parking lot and collected a two-year-old Ford Taurus from long-term parking. The vehicle was registered to a college buddy who lived in Belgium. As long as Mulholland obeyed the rules of the road and didn’t do anything stupid, the car would get him to where he needed to be.
He got behind the wheel, started the engine and let it settle. After another minute he pulled out onto the Leesburg Pike and turned south towards I-66, driving steadily. He glanced at the dashboard clock…
Sixty-three minutes.
She would know by now, and Mulholland wondered how she would react to the news that her Chief of Staff had executed a pre-planned escape? She would feel confused, angry, then betrayed. They’d always been close, climbing the greasy pole together all the way to the top. During Baghdad she’d expressed genuine concern for his well-being, had assuaged his doubts, convinced him that they were doing the right thing. He’d swallowed it too, because she’d told him everything was going to be okay.
